Page 58 of The Strawberry Thief
I nodded, knowing I never would. Formality comes with thesoutane; and like thesoutane, it serves as defence.
‘Perhaps you’d like a drink,’ she said. ‘At this time in the evening, I like to change from green tea to something a little more potent.’
I shook my head. ‘No, thank you.’
She smiled. ‘Then I hope you don’t mind if I do. This is a margarita. It’s the one thing I can make in the kitchen.’ She sipped her drink, looking both young and old with her long pale hair and her many tattoos. Is her hair blonde, or silver-grey? Even now, it’s hard to tell. And her dress? Is it blue, or purple, or green? Either way, it is reflective, shining like oil on water. She might be Vianne’s age, or her mother’s: she moves from one to the other as I see her from different angles. Of course, those mirrors do not help: it’s hard to see things as they are.
I indicated Narcisse’s file, which I was carrying under my arm. ‘I hear you were in possession of this,’ I said. ‘Madame Dubois, would you care to explain?’
She looked at the file. She seemed unsurprised. That was disappointing; I’d hoped for some kind of sign, however small, that I’d shaken her composure. But she was flawless, unshakeable: standing there in her watered silk like a figure from a Victorian painting. Her prosthetic feet were invisible under the floor-length fabric, and she moved so languidly that I could almost have believed that she was floating over the ground like a ghost, or a will-o’-the-wisp. And yet there is nothing insubstantial about her. If anything, she is heavier than average. She stands very straight, very sure of herself. And it is I who feel weak in her presence, as if the smallest wind could blow me away.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a drink?’
‘Maybe just a small one,’ I say.
She smiled and stepped behind the curtain, returning almost straightaway with an ice-filled jug and a glass. ‘The folder doesn’t matter,’ she said. Her tone made it into a statement. ‘There’s something else you need. I can tell.’
I shook my head and sipped my drink. The taste of lime was fresh and strong, masking the strength of the alcohol. I wondered if I hadn’t made a mistake in challenging her openly. But it was too late to back away now. A warmth had begun to radiate from the pit of my stomach; a warmth that fanned out fingers of heat across my temples and my neck.
‘Did you take the folder?’ I said.
She smiled. ‘Not exactly. It came to me. I thought maybe you’d want it back.’
‘Did you read it?’
She sipped her drink. ‘Does that matter?’
The fingers of heat had reached my face. ‘Did you read it?’ I said again.
‘No, I didn’t read it, Francis. But I can tell it’s important to you.’
‘A man’s last words are sacrosanct,’ I said. ‘It was Narcisse’s legacy.’
She gave her little half-smile again, as if contemplating mysteries. ‘Narcisse. I hear so much about him,’ she said. ‘If I believed in ghosts, I might be tempted to think that he was still here, watching us.’
I made a dismissive sound, to imply that I was above superstition. Of course, it could be argued that if Catholics believe in theHolyGhost, that tacitly implies a belief in the unholy kind. Morgane went on:
‘Did you know that people used to believe that the soul of a dead person could be trapped in a mirror? That’s why so many old people here still drape the mirrors after a death, and stop the clocks, to give the deceased time to reach Heaven before the Devil finds out they’re dead.’
I looked over her shoulder, left bare to expose a wreath of strawberry-leaves. In the mirrors, I saw myself, caught in a thicket of blue leaves and brown. The mirrors are positioned to project that tapestry everywhere: the effect is like a tower of cards, endlessly reflecting those wholly unnatural flowers and birds, that wholly impossible foliage. Suddenly I realized how much I hatedThe Strawberry Thief: its regimented patterns, its drab and relentless colours.
‘My God, how can you bear it?’ I said.
‘We all see what we need to see. Some see freedom; others, constraint. Some see their loved ones; others, their death.’
Death. Once more I thought I smelt smoke; heard the sound of voices far across the burning river. I wondered: if I stay here, would I see Pierrot and Choupette, hand-in-hand, like the Babes in the Wood, looking out from the undergrowth?
‘What about Roux? What did he see?’
‘I don’t discuss my clients.’
‘No. Of course not.’ Once more I smelt smoke; watery and bitter. ‘He doesn’t like me much,’ I said. ‘I don’t think he really likes anyone here, except for Vianne, and Joséphine. Maybe that’s why he’s been so difficult about holding the land in trust for Rosette. Maybe he feels as if the trust is somehow forcing him to stay here. Although you’d think a man like that would be grateful for the chance to be part of a community like ours.’
Morgane poured another drink. ‘He already has a community.’
‘The river-rats?’ I had to laugh. ‘No-onechoosesthat lifestyle. Moving from village to village, picking fruit, doing odd jobs? It’s all right when you’re in your twenties, perhaps, but the man has a daughter who needs him. He needs to grow up and take responsibility instead of playing pirates on the river.’
Morgane smiled. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘But everyone has a story.’ She sipped her drink and turned away to look into the mirrors. ‘Years ago, in Lansquenet, when you were still a boy, Francis, there was a terrible fire on the Tannes. It was summer, the river was low, the boats packed together like bales of hay. And like bales of hay, they burned, one after the other. There could have been more casualties. As it was, two people died. A couple, asleep on their houseboat. Roux was six years old at the time. He’d crept outside to sleep on the bank, disobeying his parents. And later, after they were dead, he blamed himself for not being there.’ She smiled again. ‘Of course, that’s absurd. You and I know who’s really to blame.’
